


Inscendence

by ladyofstardvst



Category: Deadly Class (Comics), Deadly Class (TV)
Genre: Drugs mention, alcohol mention, the start of a beautifully problematic relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 05:47:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19387756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofstardvst/pseuds/ladyofstardvst
Summary: a take on the classic Rat & Legacy trope, where we skip the incessant pining and jump straight to the good stuff. the start of a series, perhaps.





	Inscendence

**Author's Note:**

> its been a hot minute, and an even hotter minute since i wrote for marcus, but i return to fulfill a request!

You found him on the roof, joint dangling between his front teeth. He was distracted, of course, head buried in the battered leather bound journal open on his lap, pen dancing across the pages in sharp lines and smooth curves.

It was his silhouette you saw first, really. Lone and shadowed against the setting of the sun across the San Francisco skyline, a stark contrast to the burnt orange, champagne sangria reds and golden, honeyed yellows blending together behind him. Deep violets had already given way to slate grey and ebony black above the shadows.

There were times, you realized, when you didn’t want your growing adoration for a rat to be known among anyone outside of their circle. Saya and Maria had viable excuses to be seen around them, ties strong enough with their crews to shake off accusations and not be met with further criticism or threats of slipping from grace.

_You_ , however.

You were a legacy by right, and a crew to call your own.

You nestled in tightly with them out of necessity, obligation and survival, rather than having chosen, wanted or having longed for people like them. They were the kind of crew who were gifted with ties to the same mafia family as your own. You were stuck together just like everyone else saddled with things they hadn’t asked for with this life. You had friends, allies, fear instilled into the right places – every _thing_ and every _one_ you needed to keep the breath flowing through your lungs without a worry. The family name passed down to you by blood was enough to keep you _cushioned_ , but not _comfortable_.

The _thing_ about being a legacy, though - there were _expectations._ The kind you didn’t always want to follow: things you had to do for appearance and aesthetic and to show strength, power, resilience. You weren’t with your crew because you _chose_ them as your people. You were there because your mother was a _hitman_ , and it was decided _that_ was who you would grow to be.

_Careful_ had become second nature. Being noticed cozy-ing up with someone deemed unworthy of your status - you never forgot how important reputations were at King’s Dominion. How much they could make or break you and your future, regardless if they were full of shit or absolutely right as rain. Regardless if the one snitching on you was apart of your crew, or not.

Tonight, however, was _different_.

All the way from the rooftop staircase to the graveyard high above the building crawled with students in various stages of inebriation – and some cases, undress. Bottles and cans began to pile up in the corners outside, and in the occasional potted plant. The soundtrack to your youths was blaring from a boom box somewhere among the sea of bodies and trash, while a brisk breeze carried the sound of thrashing guitars and the scream of Joe Strummer of the Clash to everyone within a hundred foot radius.

Tonight, you could blame the alcohol, drugs, all of the above.

Tonight, you _wanted_ the irony of cliché, because you _knew_ how it would end. You _wanted_ the company and the rumors and the questions and accusations. You felt it was time everyone _knew_ you could handle what they threw at you. You felt it was time _they_ handled the surprise _you_ threw at _them_.

And maybe you just wanted to make a rebellious statement for once.

Marcus didn’t see you until you were beside him, shoulder brushing his as you claimed the empty seat next to him. You confiscated the joint from his lips and stole a drag of your own. You welcomed the few beats of familiar silence.

He smiled _just a little bit_ to himself, when he saw your face lit up by the disappearing sun, saw it reflecting the deepening vermilion sky in your eyes, and the shadows beginning to distort your features into a revered work of art - something that would cause Donatello and Raphael to feel shame in their highly admired creations.

_Chiaroscuro_ , he thought it was called.

The blood began to rush faster and harder through his veins until he could hear it echo throughout his mind, a personal sort of bassline he had come to acquire when he was graced with your presence. The ballpoint pen dropped down into the crease of his journal, unaware he was closing it when his eyes became glued to the smoke leaving your lips in swirls and shapes that looked like a magic spell you were casting upon him as the waning moon rose.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the drugs, but Marcus Lopez Arguello had never wanted to kiss someone so _fiercely_ in his whole entire life.

Up until now, he thought he just really liked your company, and he just really liked getting high with you.

But _now_ -

_Well_.

Marcus realized with an acute discovery that it wasn’t the alcohol or the drugs at all.

And _you_ -

_Well_.

When you glanced over, you could see in his eyes what he was thinking. The gateway to Marcus’s soul has, and always will be, his russet brown eyes darkened with life, brightened by curiosity, and hidden behind the veil this place made you wear to keep your organs where they belong.

Your life was your own, in that moment, and you let the veil that guarded the gateway of your own eyes slip away until it vanished into nothing.

“Mind if I borrow this for a minute?” you asked, spliff already between your lips a second time. You watched the smoke curl and fly around the air, the haze tinted the colors of the sky above you. It was getting darker and harder to see now.

_As long as you give it back_ , Marcus replied, voice hazy from smoke and raspy from disuse in his seclusion. You vaguely registered the words, focusing instead on how he had a voice that was perfect for reciting Keats and you hoped to hear that some day.

Your eyes found his after a moment of silence and this time, _he’s_ the one stealing the joint from your lips – oh so gently – and finished it off between his own.

“Do you ever wonder,” you found yourself asking, “What this place would be like if status and perceptions didn’t exist?”

“All the time,” he says immediately.

You knew he meant it.

“Is royalty not as great as everyone thinks?” he prompted further, leaning in closer. It wasn’t just a causal touch of shoulders brushing against one another anymore. It had graduated into your side pressing into his while he leaned back on a hand he placed on the ground behind you. Marcus let the journal dangle from fingertips in his other hand. He paid it no mind, only keen on trying to find some insight on the _real_ you – not the ceaseless flirtation that’s become so common it’s like a second skin.

Your lips quirk, and all you breathe in is smoke.

“Can you keep a secret?” you closed the distance even more, voice dropping just loud enough for him to hear over the crowds and music and release of life.

Marcus grinned at you then, and you _felt_ it – you felt his smile slug you in the jaw, and you felt a host of butterflies make your stomach their home, and you _kn_ _e_ _w_ you had made a decision there won’t be coming back from. Heat of the moment, high on freedom and drunk on – well, a lot of things, really.

You suddenly don’t have rules. Not with Marcus.

“ _Try me_ ,”

“Royalty,” you began to answer, “I don’t give a _shit_ about it anymore.”

And, in front of everyone, you kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

> you too, can request a thing or two via my tumblr @ladyofstardvst  
> i reserve the right to Not Write Something, as always.


End file.
